


My Kingdom for a Prince

by SilverRollu



Series: My Kingdom for a Prince [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, At this point what happens to Regis isn't even a spoiler yeah, Character Death, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Now with a second part!, Platonic Relationships, Psychological Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-17 09:02:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11848338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverRollu/pseuds/SilverRollu
Summary: A fill forthis kinkmeme prompt:Noct is captured by a person or people of your choosing and fed exclusively Really Nasty Things for the duration of the kidnapping. Could be foods he flat-out hates, or could be things that people generally don't consider food. Preferably some combo of both! Like, every other day they switch off or something. (No bodily fluids, though, please!)Anyway, he eats what they give him, or he doesn't get fed.Noctis has the worse day of his life, watching the city he called home for his entire life get wrecked by Imperials. His week only spirals from there.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is some kind of Canon Divergence AU - the marriage between Luna and Noctis was never arranged, thus Noct had no real reason to leave Insomnia. So he and the rest of the Bros were there for the fall.
> 
> I have like, vague ideas of how everything went down so feel free to imagine what you wish to fill in the blanks. Also sorry y'all lmfao enjoy
> 
> Warnings: **Gross ass food, bugs, vomit,** and **force-feeding?**

When Noctis wakes up, his first thought is the passing “ _god my fucking head hurts._ ” He doesn’t move for a good few moments, only groaning when he realizes the pounding against his skull probably won’t let up anytime soon. Eventually he blinks his eyes open, waits for his vision to settle, and attempts to sit up. But it’s impossible, because his hands are trapped behind his back and his legs feel like jelly, and after a few more moments of that specific brand of hell he has his second thought. “ _Fuck_.”

Next he takes stock of what he sees around him; he knows he’s lying on concrete, as it’s cold and smooth and nothing like his bed back at the citadel. He wiggles to turn on his side, to get a clearer view of the room around him. It’s small and dark. The walls are a dirty gray, barren, no windows. The light he’s seeing with is but a little sliver filtering in underneath the door on the opposite wall. There’s a small latched window on the door, closed. Underneath it is a wider but narrower slit, also closed.

In the corner there’s a small bed, with no blankets or pillows, essentially looking no more comfortable than the floor. In the opposite corner, a small bucket.

The purpose of this room becomes abundantly clear the more he stares at it, and he takes in a deep breath in an attempt to curb the panic beginning to settle in. It’s a cell. He’s locked in a cell. The prince of Lucis, a prisoner.

Noctis flexes his fingers, testing the strength of his binds. There’s barely any give. He’s not sure he’d be able to break through even if there was, however. Because just turning to his side and moving his hands feels absolutely draining, equally so with the pain throbbing in the back of his head. Frankly, he just feels plain bad.

He makes a few more attempts to sit up and manages eventually, groaning when a bout of vertigo hits him. With his stomach churning and the dark walls spinning before him he almost doesn’t hear the approaching footsteps outside.

Noctis does notice when the door’s window slides open and light begins to pour in.

“Well, hello there.”

The voice is smooth and vaguely accented and Noctis recognizes it almost immediately.

His memories come in bits and pieces.

Insomnia… fell. The signing ceremony went well until it _didn’t_. The imperials moved in and everything went to hell. Noctis fought as hard as he could but there was only so much he could do when they were so vastly outnumbered. The explosions, the fires, the mass panic as the citizens fled for their lives. And—

“ _You,_ ” Noct spits, and his voice is quieter than he wants, too torn and broken.

“Oh my.” The voice comes with a face. The man, red hair all sorts of askew and damning smile adorning his lips, peers through the tiny window. “You aren’t still mad at me, are you?”

“You bastard!” The words seem to burn Noctis’ throat, and he knows now why his voice sounds like that. He’d been screaming, before. “You scum— you bastards betrayed us, and _you_ … when I get out of here you’re _dead_.”

The man chuckles then, sounding for the world like he’s in the middle of a friendly conversation. It boils the blood in Noctis’ veins— he’s not just mad, he’s seething. He’s shaking, down to his core, tastes metal where he’s biting the inside of his cheek to stop from snarling.

Murderer. This fucking _murderer_ stands in front of him and has the gall to laugh? Oh, he’ll rip this guy’s throat out first chance he gets.

“I take it you’re still sad about daddy dearest? Come now, an entire day has passed by now. It’s not healthy to hold grudges, you know.”

Noctis does snarl, then. He doesn’t have energy for anything, and he knows now that his skull is pounding from the beating he took to the back of the head. Neither of these stop him from dragging himself to his feet and launching himself at the door. It succeeds in doing nothing but making the man laugh, the window being too small for Noct to do much of anything.

“By the gods, my dear boy, we need to teach you some better manners.” The man turns away now, addresses someone Noctis cannot see. “here, give our guest a nice little surprise.”

The man’s face leaves. Noctis is too focused on following him with his eyes to notice the other window sliding open, and by the time he looks down there’s a metal instrument poking his stomach and it’s too late.

The shock has him convulsing and it hurts, it hurts so much but he can’t breathe, let alone scream. It only lasts a few seconds before he simply drops, hitting the ground hard and gasping, finally, when his lungs start to work again. His body shakes, and he takes in breaths that don’t stick, gives heavy coughs.

The man’s laugh starts up again, sounding so far away, and Noct can’t respond. All he can do is roll over and try to breath, focus on the frantic pounding of his heart.

Fuck.

* * *

 

The first night, no one comes back. Noctis slips in and out of a fitful sleep. His dreams are just disconnected memories; the citadel becoming overrun with magitek infantry, the monster like machines dropping in from the skies. People screaming. His father’s face the moment he died, pierced through the back by a man, smiling with a mouth full of tar.

What happened to his friends, he wonders. His Crownsguard who fought so hard to help him escape the palace at his father’s last wish, who stood by his side even when surrounded. Did they go down too, like him? Are they captives too? Or are they like his father, rotting in the center of a burning city, a kingdom lost?

Noctis doesn’t cry that first night. He stares blankly at the barren walls of his cell and imagines death. He feels numb.

* * *

 

The second day, someone approaches his cell. Or some _thing_ , he should say. When the door opens it is what seems like an entire squadron of MTs that swarm in, surrounding him.

It happens at an inopportune time. Noctis had been attempting to conquer the armiger, to pull out a sword or a dagger, something, anything. He’d been trying for hours, unsuccessfully. Noctis isn’t sure if he’s too weak or too inexperienced.

“What the hell do you want?” Noctis asks. He’s not sure how threatening he sounds, with the dry, worn throat, but he tries anyway.

He’s standing, having pulled himself to his feet in the hopes it’d help his efforts. It was an ordeal, as it became more and more apparent how injured he is. He definitely has a few broken ribs, sprained shoulder, still nursing the concussion he knows he got from his head injury. If his hands were free he’d have checked on the rest of his body, as he’s sure there are other bruises and cuts all around.

All in all, he eyes all the MTs warily. Because while he definitely won't go down without a fight, he knows it would be a very one sided fight.

Two of the MTs grab his arms, holding him in place. Another one approaches him from behind and removes the binding from Noct’s hands. Immediately Noctis lunges for one of them, and receives a swift kick to the side for his efforts.

He falls over, hitting the ground, and watches shakily as the machines start to empty the room, red eyes watching him the entire time. One of them leaves something in front of the door before it closes behind them, throwing the room into darkness again.

Noctis takes a few moments to recuperate before crawling over to the door, eyeing the left object with a cautious eye.

It’s a tray of what Noctis assumes is supposed to be food. Assumes, because it smells absolutely disgusting.

“Ugh….” Noct covers his nose with one hand, trying not to gag. It looks like some kind of soup except it seems more gelatinous than it should be, and smells like rotten meat. He’s not touching that.

The second little window on the door, upon closer inspection, has an indentation meant to carry food trays. The MTs left it open, probably to collect the empty tray when he finished. Noctis holds his breath as he picks up the tray and deposits it in the  window, only exhaling after walking away.

Gods, he’s already a prisoner. Beaten and trapped and hopeless. Disgusting slop would be the cherry atop the sundae, wouldn’t it? Hell if he would fall to that level.

All he has to do is bide his time. Recuperate his powers slowly, heal up a bit, then he can find an opportunity to break it. Noctis isn’t sure how long that’ll take, but he is going to do it, that much is certain.

* * *

 

The third day, they come and take away the tray of gross slop, and return with another. Noctis takes one look at it and feels his stomach drop.

It’s a vegetable puree, mostly carrots if the orange color is any indication. It’s not a perfect blend, either, as there are whole chunks floating in it; a few peas, lettuce, something red that might be beets. The dish also smells repugnant, admittedly because of the vegetables.

“Are you fucking serious?” Noct asks absolutely no one, because besides of that murderer from a few days ago no one with the capacity for conversation has come by. The MT who left the tray is probably already gone, not that he’s sure the thing would listen to his complaint.

At least, next to this dish is a glass of water and what looks like stale bread. He downs the water too quickly, the warm liquid sliding down his throat feeling like heaven. After that he tries the bread, but it’s so stale it barely tears apart, and is like a thick gum when he tries to chew it. He eats half of it before he can’t anymore, which is a shame because he’s _really_ hungry.

Noctis eyes the soup, dares to pick up the spoon even. _I'm desperate_ , he tells himself. It looks better than the brown slop they tried giving him yesterday, and he needs to keep his strength up if he wants to stand a chance at escaping. So he scoops the orange goop into his mouth and promptly spits it back out, gagging and turns away.

It didn’t smell too bad but it tasted very _not_ like carrots. It’s all sour and musty tasting. It sticks to his tongue even after spitting it out, and Noctis regrets downing his water too fast because he desperately wants the aftertaste out of his mouth.

Well, that’s all. He places the tray into the window and walks back to the bed, sitting down gingerly.

He’s checked himself over for injuries after being freed, and is fine outside of the numerous bruises he has. There’s an exhaustion that sticks to his bones now that he isn’t in an adrenaline pumping, battle situation. His head hurts constantly. He doesn’t know when he lays down and falls asleep, but he is glad for it.

* * *

 

He sees Ignis in his sleep, first. The man looks worried in his dreams just as he does in real life, giving Noct an exasperated yet caring look. The dream seems to cycle through different memories; stargazing as children, music lessons that Noctis could never get to stick, a time when Ignis had been sick and Noctis insisted on visiting him to make sure he was already. It wasn’t a thing for royalty to do, he was told, to check on a retainer. He had attendants to do things like that. But ignis was too important. He’d go over the young man’s place and made lukewarm soup from a can and wiped his face with a towel to cool him down.

When his first fit wakes up him, Noctis is trembling. He wants to see Ignis so badly. Wants to go to him like he did when they were still so young, to hear sweet assurances in his voice.

His empty stomach cramps and Noctis curls up into a fetal position, trying to listen to his own heartbeat to lull himself to sleep. It doesn’t work.

 

* * *

 

The fourth day is about the same. They come silently, besides of the vague whirring sounds that seem to follow MTs around, and leave a new tray of food. Just like the previous days, it’s something straight revolting.

Noctis isn’t sure where to start with this dish. It’s green and brown and those are colors that don’t agree with him when they’re on his plate. The brown seems to be chunks of meat, most of which are so overcooked that they’re actually charred black. Beside it is a green goop, of which the sight of makes Noctis groan. What was with these fucks and vegetable puree?

Nevertheless, Noctis ignores it. He downs the new glass of water, sipping it slowly this time, and then places the tray back in the window. He paces back to the bed and sits down. There he begins to stretch his shoulder. There’s not much he can do about most of his injuries, because without access to his armiger he had no potions. And no potions meant dealing with the pain.

He’s also dizzy; the water has been a life-send, but it only does so much for his empty stomach. The hunger makes him feel so weak, yet looking at those dishes makes nothing but bile rise to his throat.

Just a little longer, he thinks. He hasn’t had luck with the armiger, but he’s bound to get it eventually, right? He could escape. He could.

* * *

 

He relives a precious memory of his; Prompto staying over his place for the weekend, an increasingly frequent occurrence. They lay on Noctis’ bed, side by side, playing king’s knight until they’re too tired to stare at their phones so they talk instead.

It’s around the time Prompto began to join the Crownsguard, at Noct’s suggestion. He’s nervous about the training, he lets slip. He’s not sure if he’s ready. Because Noctis is too cool and stronger than he is already, and Noctis trips over his own tongue trying to deny those words.

Of all of them, prompto deserved it the least. Being attacked, having their nice life stripped away under their feet; it wasn’t good for any of them but Prompto is normal. A civilian. He didn’t deserve it.

There’s what feels to be a pit in the bottom of Noctis’ stomach, untouched by the gnawing hunger. It grows from his stomach to his chest and it becomes harder to breath for a few minutes before it evens out. Noctis gasps.

He hates this cell.

* * *

 

“A little birdy told me you haven’t been eating.”

On the fifth day, the man comes back.

“What does it matter to you?” Noctis doesn’t move from his perch on the bed. His stomach doesn’t hurt as much as it did before, but in place of the pain is an all encompassing exhaustion. just keeping his upright position feels draining. Speaking even more so.

“It matters a lot to me, my dear Noctis. I didn’t bring you all the way here just for you to perish.” at that the man backs away from the window and pulls it closed. Seconds later Noctis hears the click of the door being unlocked. “Here, I brought you something—prepared special for our lovely little prince. Made with love.”

When the door opens the man is standing there, look absolutely insufferable with his lips curled up into a satisfied smirk. Everything about him looked terrible, from the scruffy quality of his facial hair to his outfit, layers upon layers with colors that had no business being together.

The man doesn’t come into the room, however. Instead a small crowd of MTs begin to filter in on either side of him, marching right up to Noctis’ bed. One in particular approaches Noctis head on, carrying a tray in its hands.

The last few meals had been absolutely awful but this one is in a league all on its own. There’s a big bowl, filled to the brim with what looked like tar. Inside of the soup are floating chunks of what could possibly be meat or vegetables but are essentially indistinguishable. And then the smell is an entirely different story; it smells rotten all around. like rotting meat or dairy that had been left out in the sun. The scent makes Noctis’ stomach roll and he starts to pull away and finds that he can’t.

The MTs grab his arms, holding him in place.

“Now, now, Noctis,” he says, and Noctis throws his head up in time to catch another one of his god awful smiles. “Be a good boy and finish your food.”

A metal hand grips him by the hair, pulling his head back, and Noctis begins to thrash, the disgust rolling around his stomach turning to dread. gods, no, _no. A_ s much as he fights it he doesn’t have the energy to push the machines off of him. He watches, shaking desperately, as the MT in front of him fills a spoon with that revolting slop and leans in closer.

Noctis tries locking his jaw, but another MT grabs his face and pulls it open. It hurts. It hurts and he can’t stop the fucker from pushing that spoon into his mouth.

It tastes like it looks. like spoiled milk, thick and sour and invasive. He wants to spit it out but they cover his mouth and he’s stuck tasting it, the gross consistency rolling around his tongue and sticking to the sides of his mouth. Noctis shakes his head, a last ditch effort to try to get free, anything, _anything_ other than what’s happening. After a few seconds another hand covers his nose and Noctis nearly starts choking right there.

He’s going to die. He’s going to suffocate if he doesn’t swallow this mess and the taste is starting to burn and he feels the tears pricking at his eyes.

“My, aren’t you a fighter? Sure this is what you want?”

Noctis starts to chew. He bites into a chunk of rancid meat, the juices exploding over his tongue and starts gagging and the tears are flowing freely now. He keeps chewing and then swallows, shivering at the feel of the thick liquid crawling down his throat. He swallows it all down and the MTs, apparently pleased, remove the hands from his face and air graciously floods in.

He gags immediately. The tears are still running down his cheeks and he takes in a gasping breath and he feels his stomach lurch forward. It’s disgusting. It hurts. He wants to go home.

“Good boy.” the man sounds more smug than he should have the right to. Smug and victorious. And maybe it’s true. Noctis takes in heaving breaths and he shudders and it does, truly, feel like he lost. “I have some important business to attend to, but I'm sure you’ll finish your dinner while I'm gone, yes?”

The monster in front of him fills the spoon up again and Noctis shakes his head, a sob breaking out of his throat. “No. No, no, no, no—”

“Ta-ta, my dear.”

Noctis sees the man leave from the corner of his eye before the MTs move in closer, the hands returning to restrict his face again. Another disgusting spoonful is deposited onto his tongue and Noctis flails, trying and failing to spit it out before his mouth is covered again.

Each spoonful feels worse than the last. He hoped that he’d get used to the flavor after a while, but he doesn’t. The taste is revolting every single time, and he’s not free after swallowing because the aftertaste sticks to his tongue and the roof of his mouth. The soup started out warm but by the time he finishes the bowl it’s cold, and he’s not sure if that made it easier or harder to take.

Eventually they leave him. They take the remnants of their awful meal and leave Noctis to sprawl across the ground, spitting and heaving. The MTs close the heavy door, and the room is dark once again.

* * *

 

There always seemed to be this duality to Gladio. He could be harsh, yes, but strangely kind. later, when all the strength Noctis tried to keep fails him and he voids the contents of his stomach into the corner bucket, he thinks Gladio wouldn’t call him weak for it.

Gladio was strict. He would get angry at Noctis constantly back home, for skipping out on sparring lessons or for refusing to get back up after being knocked down. “My arm hurts,” young Noctis had said once, and Gladio had sneered at him.

“It doesn’t stop working just because it hurts,” had been the answer, but Gladio still sat down next to him, sighing heavily and announcing that they might as well take a break.

What he wouldn’t give to have those days back, to be the whiny brat complaining about his lessons. When he finishes puking he lies against the wall, stares up at the ceiling. There are small cracks in the concrete, and he busies himself with counting them until his eyelids are heavy and he falls into a restless sleep.

* * *

 

He also wishes he could go home, but in a desperate fit he remembers there is no home for him to return to.

A prince without a kingdom.

* * *

 

On the sixth day, Noctis regards the door with dread. Strangely enough, though Noctis has no sense of time in this cell he feels as though the troopers arrive earlier than usual. And like the previous day they march inside, surrounding him.

Noctis flinches when they come near, their metal hands landing on his shoulders and holding him in place. He’s seen more of these machines now than he has in his entire life, and it is no less unsettling to see them now than the first time he’d ever laid eyes on them. He wishes he’d been dealing with humans. At least they would talk to him, taunt him, yell at him, anything. Without that Niff man from before to laugh at him, it was just the MTs, and the most they could do is glare with their shining red eyes.

They move so oddly, like puppets being yanked by their strings, and they’re built much larger than he is. Noctis doesn’t like it.

“What,” Noctis starts, and his voice sounds much worse than he was expecting. He hasn’t spoken since yesterday, after all. He’s extremely parched and it hurts, just pushing out any words. “W… what you got for me now?”

Sure enough, one of the troopers brings him a tray.

Only the food on the plate is _moving_.

“ _No_ ,” Noctis shakes his head, sucking in a shaky breath when a large hand holds it still. “No, not that. Oh gods…”

Noctis is pretty sure they just reached into the dirt outside and threw it onto a plate. It’s the only way to explain why there are fat, pink worms wiggling before his eyes, directly contrasting what looks like actual mud on the bottom of the plate.

His “meal” is glistening in the dim light. It’s slime, actual honest to god _slime_ mixed in with his dirt and worms.

“I can’t— I can’t do this. Please, _please_.”

But there are no response from an MT. The one holding the tray lifts up an empty fork and holds it out in front of him.

He has to pick it up. They want him to pick it up and eat it himself. He’d be shaking his head if he could. The hands holding his shoulders down push harder, and Noctis just barely holds back a whimper. He takes in a shuddering breath and just. Thinks.

If he doesn’t do this, it’ll be a repeat of the previous day. They’ll hold him down and spoon feed him and he won’t be able to breath and he’ll choke and—

Noctis takes the fork. The MT holds the tray within arms reach, and Noctis cautiously pokes around the plate. He has a vague hope that maybe if he pushes it around he’ll find something actually edible. Instead, under a clump of dirt and an especially big worm he finds that… it’s not a worm at all. It’s red and big and has little bulbs sticking out of its head and is definitely a real fucking slug.

That explains the slime at least.

“C-can I get a raincheck on this, guys?” right about now he wishes he’d have that gross, vegetable puree from days ago. Even that seems more appealing.

The machines seem to hover in closer, and Noctis knows he’s pushing a limit now. He’s gotta get it over with, he’s just got to do it. With the fork he spears a small piece of dirt, gags when it crunches and he realizes it’s not simply dirt. But he’s done it now, so he lifts it to his lips and pushes it in his mouth.

He takes a bite and it’s disgusting. Whatever the crunchy thing was he knows it doesn’t taste good. It’s a bug, probably. He has to try really, really hard not to just spit it back onto the plate, because he doesn’t know how the MTs will react to that. Eventually he chews it enough to swallow.

Okay, not that bad. If the rest of it goes like that, then he can get through this. He can get through. He takes a chance, spears one of the smaller worms and brings it to his face. Eating it is nothing like a gummy worm at all, but at the very least, thankfully tastes like slimy dirt. Makes him gag, yes, but not the worse he’s ever had.

Noctis is strangely proud of himself for doing it. The troopers around him stare, but they aren’t holding his nose closed so he considers it a good thing. Only… the slug, sitting now in the middle of the plate and thankfully unmoving, bless the gods, is haunting him.

He’s not eating that.

“Alright, I think I'm full.”

No response.

“I'm done. Thanks guys but—”

The MTs on either side of him clamp down suddenly and Noctis feels the panic bubbling inside of him.

“No! no, I ate a lot of it already, aren’t we good yet?”

A hand on his head yanks at his hair, pulling his head back and making him yell out. Another grips his jaw, holding his mouth open and in one smooth movement that slippery monster is on his tongue and he’s thrashing, cries muffled by a metal hand.

The slug nearly hits the back of his throat. The taste is disgustingly bitter, so much so that it has him shaking with his desire to spit it out. He takes in a thick, panicked breath, the last he gets before fingers close his nostrils and he’s left to suffer with the taste.

He starts to chew. It’s possibly the worse sensation; it’s so slippery that it feels like he’s chasing it around his mouth while trying to chew. The consistency reminds him of a gelatin dessert, if gelatin was chewy like an overcooked piece of meat, or leaked copper-like blood.

He can’t stand chewing it, it’s that bad. Instead he pushes with his tongue and just swallows. It goes down so slowly that he starts to choke—but with the hand over his mouth he can’t spit it out, so he forces it down some more.

Once it’s down, and the MTs are satisfied with that they let him go. Not just his mouth or his head but fully, and Noctis stumbles from his seat to his knees, coughing. Two coughs in and the bile pushes up from his stomach and he’s voiding everything. The slug, the dirt, everything. His mouth, his nose, it all burns. He takes heaving breaths. It hurts so much.

The MTs leave then, going as abruptly as they arrived. Noctis watches the marching of their feet from the floor, sees their mismatched gait out the door and into the thing light coming from the wall beyond. Once the last one leaves, however, there’s another pair of feet standing in the doorway.

“My, my, what a right mess you’ve made there. Meal wasn’t to your liking, I presume?”

Noctis looks up, slowly, reluctantly, right into the face of his captor. And he’s never felt such unbridled hatred in his life.

“I’ll let it slide just this once but… and don’t get mad about this, dear Noctis…. you’ll have to start pulling your weight around here eventually. Cleaning up your own messes at the very least. And, here’s a little secret,” The man walks up to Noctis, bends down to level with him and whispers, “By cleaning, I mean… _constructing_ your next meal, if you will. Just because you couldn’t stomach it the first time doesn’t mean you should let it waste.”

Noctis heaves again at the thought.

“Goodbye and good night, my boy. Sweet dreams.”

* * *

 

Noctis sleeps on the ground again that night. He’d only managed to crawl away from the site of his _mess_ , not having the energy or motivation to pull himself to the bed.

He lies at such an angle that his vision aligns perfectly with the corner, so he stares at the junction between the wall and the floor. The more the darkness lingers, the more he stares, blinking into the nothingness ahead, the stronger the feeling in his chest becomes. Like a rubber band wrapped around his upper body, he feels constricted. A few more moments and he takes in a long, shuddering breath, blinking rapidly.

And then the calm breaks.

And then _he_ breaks.

“F….father...” Noctis pulls himself into a tight ball, arms tight around his torso. His next breath leaves as a sob, and he can’t stop it.

His father was a busy man. He had to rule over an entire kingdom, and for all of Noctis’ complaining, he knew as well as anyone how much of a burden that was. Years, of seeing his father attend meetings for hours, being pulled away from family time to take care of urgent business. Years, even, of watching his father gray at the hairline, watching his gait get just that much slower, his body moving just that more heavier.

Regis Lucis Caelum may not have been the best father, by any stretch, but he was _Noct’s_ father, and he misses him so, so much. Right now he feels the smallest he’s ever been in years, like he’s eight again and all I wants is to be in his father’s arms, where he could be safe. Where he could take away the pain.

But he can’t. Not because he’s locked up in a dark cell in some hellhole, but because he’s dead. His father is a corpse rotting on the floor in the place they’d called home, and Noctis screams because he’s dead and he’s never coming back.

The worse thing is that he’ll never forget that moment for as long as he lives; his father, ushering him away from the citadel with his Crownsguard, calling on his magic to shield Noctis in his final moments. The view he had, then, of a red-haired man, who he thought was just another stuffy imperial politician, breaking through Regis’ defenses —and what kind of man is he, to break a Caelum’s magic, to overpower his father’s will— and stabbing him.

And laughing about it, too. laughing that same insufferable laugh he’s given Noctis all week, and that smile that sends prickles of rage down Noctis’ spine.

Noctis screams out his grief until his already parched throat is sore, until there’s nothing but weak sobs crushing his chest. He doesn’t know how long he cries. Until his tears dry up, maybe.

When sleep finds him he dreams about his father’s smile.

* * *

 

On the seventh day, the man doesn’t come. None of the magitek troopers come either. Time passes and Noctis stares up at the ceiling, having dragged himself to a sitting position at some point. He waits. He flexes his fingers, vaguely searching for his armiger even knowing it probably won’t work, as it hasn’t the entire time he’s been trapped in this god awful place. He’s partially convinced he’ll never be able to conjure it again.

So he waits, and waits, and waits.

Eventually he starts to wonder what’s happening. The dim light that comes through the crack under the door shifts, as if people are walking by. Or running, even. Noctis hears the telltale signs of MTs, the rattling of their armor as they run, but none of the shadows under the door stop there.

Curious, Noctis gets to his feet and walks over to the door, putting his face against the cold metal and trying his best to make out the commotion outside.

Minutes pass and it gets louder out there; more moments and it sounds awfully like there’s a battle commencing just outside his cell, the precise clanging of metal that could only belong to the clash of a weapons ringing loudly in the air, along with the subtle explosions MTs are known for when they’re destroyed.

All at once, hope begins to bubble in Noctis’ chest. It’s probably foolish to think someone is coming to his rescue, that anyone even knows he’s here, but he figures whoever’s out there fighting off the imperials have to be an ally. They could help him.

“Hey—” Noctis starts, clears his throat because he’s not loud enough. “Hey! Hello!” He starts to bang on the little window, wishing they’d left it open so he could _see_ what’s happening. “Anyone! Hello!”

There’s some more explosions, more clashing. Then suddenly he can feel the presence of another outside of the door. He worries for a moment when they don’t immediately speak, but his fears are calmed when a voice, another human that isn’t that goddamn murderer speaks to him.

“…highness?”

Oh gods. They knew him. They _knew_ him.

“Yeah— yeah, it’s me. Oh gods,” Noctis leans heavily against the door, lets out a laugh that’s a borderline sob. “Please, help me. Please, _please_.”

The door unlocks. It creaks when it opens, and Noctis barely has enough time to register what just happened before he’s grabbed, pulled into arms that aren’t familiar but are warm and _human_.

It’s less a hug and more that the man is checking Noctis for injuries. Noctis knows he must look awful— beaten, bruised, smelling like an actual dumpster. But he can’t bring himself to be embarrassed about it.

The man— who’s wearing a Kingsglaive uniform, Noct notices belatedly— pulls back, hands firmly on his shoulders, and looks him in the eyes. “Can you walk?”

Noctis nods.

“Good. Okay.” The man reaches a hand to touch the communicator in his ear. “Guys—I found him. He’s safe.”

_I'm safe._

“We gotta move. Stick close to me, okay?” The man faces the door, pulling a dagger from its sheath on his side. “can’t have you dying after we just found you.”

The man leads him out of his cell and through an MT infested corridor, fighting them off left and right. His heart is pounding in his chest the entire time, but it’s excitement rather than panic, and Noctis can’t complain about that.

He’s free.

* * *

Insomnia was destroyed. This isn’t something that has to be explained to Noctis, because he’d seen it first hand. The riots in the streets, the magitek weaponry firing from the skies, the troopers cutting down civilian after innocent civilian.

He doesn’t have to be told it’s destroyed, but just existing outside of it’s walls  _knowing_ that its no longer there… it’s a lot to take in.

Turns out he’d only been taken to an imperial base stationed in Lucis. He’s not sure why, when Niff technology allows them to travel far and they could have certainly taken him back to Niflheim, but he is still incredibly thankful he wasn’t that far from his homeland. and also thankful he isn’t dead. He’s battered and broken but alive and he can allow himself to be the least bit happy about that.

Right now he’s sitting in the backseat of a truck, speeding towards a safe-house, and he can definitely allow himself to be happy about that.

“We’ll be there in less than half an hour, highness.”

Noctis had been more than relieved to have a more familiar voice with him. He never interacted much with members of the Kingsglaive, as many of them still lived outside of the wall. So as gracious as he feels for the man who saved him– Nyx, as he’d introduced himself later – he didn’t know him personally.

But driving the car now, the man they’d met up with escaping the base is an influential member of the Crownsguard. It’s Cor the immortal, in the flesh, and just hearing his voice is enough to make Noctis relax a little.

In response to the man’s statement, he nods, head barely moving from where it lies against the back of the seat. Cor doesn’t say anything else, so Noctis assumes he saw that.

“They were worried sick about you, y'know.” Nyx speaks now, turning around in his seat to face him. “We were all looking for you, trashing niff bases left and right. I can just imagine the look on their faces.”

Noctis feels himself chuckle. It’s a little low in his throat and sleepy because  _gods_  he’s exhausted, but it’s genuine.

Yeah, he can imagine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> check me out @ [tumblr](http://leonmckennedy.tumblr.com) or @ [twitter](http://twitter.com/vanridgeway) yknow. if so inclined


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original request had a "Post-rescue Iggy food" bonus that I didn't get to in the first part. 
> 
> So here you go :)

Everything is unbearably silent. Noctis is used to silence; from long days studying with strict tutors, to long nights waiting in the Citadel's empty corridors, waiting for the chance to meet with his father after the end of a long work day.

Now, it's suffocating. Right now, when everyone else has gone to bed in preparation for another long day ahead, Noctis stares at a wall, still very much awake. The white noise around him tugs at his ears and every few minutes he thinks he can hear the jangle of metal, a clunky machine's uneven gait approaching from the distance, coming ever so closer. He's given up on sleeping hours ago, have migrated from the room he shares with Prompto to the outside living area, parking his butt on the worn leather couch.

The place he was taken to is a small, inconspicuous home on the outskirts of Leide. With that in mind it really shouldn't have seemed as quiet as it did. Not with Leide's rolling sandstorms rattling at the edges of the roof, or the sounds of desert animals migrating under the cover of nightfall. There's plenty of life to be found, given he focuses. When he does, he hears a laughing man, tone so disgustingly pleased. He hears thick boots, the creak of a heavy door, metal joints stressed as they extend, arms reaching to grab handfuls of hair, to cover his face with a cold, gloved hand—

Noctis lurches forward in his seat, covers his mouth. His throat feels slippery, and he coughs to cover his gag, attempts to shake the urge off. He's only partially successful.

"...Noct?"

Try as he might to stop it, Noctis still flinches. He turns to see Ignis standing a few feet away, hair looking a bit disheveled. There's a surge of guilt, suddenly, that maybe he woke the man up somehow. He moves to start apologizing but finds that he doesn't trust himself to open his mouth, and instead looks away.

"Are you alright?" A nod. "....I must say, I'm not quite used to you waking before me."

Noctis finds it odd that Ignis would be waking up at this hour, but stops when he realizes he doesn't actually know what time it is.

Ignis stands there a moment longer, like he's debating his next move. Then he approaches Noctis fully, moving slowly. His steps are quiet and light. Noctis doesn't flinch.

"Would you like an early breakfast?"

His stomach isn't quite lurching at him, but there's a weird lump settled in the pit of his gut. Noctis shakes his head, relaxing back into the couch and swallowing thickly. He watches the gears turn in Ignis' head and wishes he could read Ignis as well as the man could read him. Ignis nods at length, turns to leave the living area.

"Perhaps I'll make something simple. Do not feel obligated to eat anything; Gladio will gladly eat whatever we don't touch."

Ignis disappears into the kitchen at that, and Noctis considers his position for a few minutes before dragging himself from the couch to follow. Unlike Ignis' steps —a near silent stride— when Noctis walks the floorboards of the old house groans under his weight. Noctis winces at the sound, hoping it doesn't wake up anyone else still sleeping. In the kitchen Ignis seems very unconcerned about the noise; instead he deftly pulls ingredients and utensils from the cupboards and begins to cook.

They don't have too much in the way of resources, currently. The fancy foods Noctis had been so used to eating, made by the royal cooks or by Ignis' hand himself, are not an option without the necessary ingredients. But lack of ingredients have never stopped Ignis before, and before long Ignis places two plates with identical looking sandwiches on the kitchen table.

There are no veggies on either one. This fact doesn't stop Noctis from hesitating when approaching his plate, lifting the top off the sandwich to peer inside.

It's just meat, pan-fried to perfection, with cheese melting on top of it. It is simple, like Ignis said. And though he hesitates once again before taking in a deep breath, the smell of it is a bit intoxicating. It's food. It's  _real_  food. He checks under the meat patty and pokes around the buns, hyper aware that Ignis is watching him but not willing to see what kind of expression his friend is pulling.

He picks up the sandwich, places it at his lips. Takes a breath. Then takes a bite.

Somehow, Noctis expected something  _bad._ Even though he  _knows_  Ignis, loves him and doesn't believe for a second the man wants to hurt him, his body still tenses and he's prepared to lurch forward at a moment's notice. When the food touches his tongue he almost spits it out due to reflex, but forces himself not to when it doesn't taste like disgusting slop. It's not bugs or rotting meat or spoiled dairy. It's fresh garula meat, immaculately seasoned, tender and savory. It's gooey cheese, that strings away from his lips when he pulls the sandwich away.

It's  _real food_.

"Noct?"

Noctis doesn't notice the tears budding in his eyes until he blinks a few of them out. He suddenly can't  _see_  but even that does not matter when he starts to chew the small mouthful and shakes, holding the rest of the sandwich tightly in his fingers. He takes a shuddering breath and swallows, closing his eyes to just enjoy the moment. All he hears is the shift of clothes as Ignis sits beside him.

"Was it not to your liking?"

Noctis shakes his head wildly, putting the food down and sniffling. Immediately Ignis places a napkin in his hand, and Noct wipes his fingers clean before running the back of his hand over his eyes. "No it's.... it's good. It's so good, specs."

Ignis blinks back the compliment. "Were you so hungry it brought you to tears?"

Noctis bites back a laugh. Such a comment would usually be more sarcastic coming from his advisor, but looking over at the man know he can see open concern on his face. And who could blame him? Cor brought him here over a day ago and he's had the appetite for nothing more than a few crackers. The thought that he should stop worrying the man comes to Noctis, and he finds it in him to smile. It's tiny and probably all broken but it's real.

"You could say that." Ignis stares. He clears his throat and continues, "I'll finish it. I promise."

Appeased by that, Ignis sits back, watching Noctis eat with worry still clinging to his features. It takes quite a while, as Noctis still hesitates upon taking bigger bites, feels that he'll be hurt despite knowing that's not the case. But he does finish the whole sandwich. And Ignis sits at his side, starting up a rather one sided conversation that Noctis is content to simply listen to.

It's silent throughout the rest of the house. Noctis doesn't mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> check me out @ [tumblr](http://leonmckennedy.tumblr.com) or @ [twitter](http://twitter.com/vanridgeway) yknow. if so inclined


End file.
